


Pancho and Parallels

by impossiblepluto



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Ant bites, Episode: s05e24-25 Grave Danger, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, tw: mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: The box was not Nick's first run in with ants.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	Pancho and Parallels

“Think you need a haircut, Pancho,” Bill Stokes ruffles the head of his youngest son. Light brown hair curls around the nape of his neck, falling back across his forehead after revealing thick, dramatic eyebrows that wiggle in delight. 

Two year old Nicky turns to his father with a wide toothy smile and laughs, his head thrown back and his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Jillian steps closer to the picnic table, camcorder pressed to her eye, trying to hold in her laughter lest she shake the camera, making future viewers nauseated. Nick is her smiley, miracle boy, hamming it up for the camera, thoroughly enjoying being the center of their attention while his older siblings are engrossed in a game Nick’s toddler legs would never keep up with, despite how determined he is to do anything and everything they are. He looks up to them with the kind of hero worship only a littlest brother can muster. 

There had been tears when he’d been denied the chance of attempting to join in with his big brothers and sisters’s game, the end of the world for the two year old, but he’s all sunny smiles now. Squawking in delight with eyes wide as a flock of birds took off and soared overhead. Squealing with joy as he chased his parents across the playground, fearlessly climbing to the top of the biggest slide. Shrieks of happiness with each new discovery. Their youngest boy is also their bravest. And Jillian’s heart was in her chest the entire time he was out of arm’s reach, high above her head on the slide, or the swing, or the tree he started to climb while he back was turned for an instant. 

Nick pulls his legs onto the picnic bench, distracted by his toes, leaning over them. His hair falling across his face. 

“Probably time for Little Pancho to visit a barber,” Bill says, raking the hair back again, the silky strands flowing through his fingers. 

“His hair is fine,” Jillian states firmly. “I’m not ready to lose his curls yet.” 

“He’s not going to be a baby forever, Jill. Someday he’s going to grow up, no matter how hard you try to stop it.”

“Don’t start, Bill. He’s only two.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised my Pancho spread his wings the farthest.” 

“Bill, stop. Don’t start planting those ideas in his head. I don’t ever want him to leave home.” 

“Thithco?” Nick is folded nearly in half, staring intently at his foot. “It’s a bee? It’s a bee?” 

Bill leans forward, taking a look at the small insect crawling along his son’s foot. He chuckles. “Nah, it’s okay Pancho, it’s an ant.”

Nicky’s head flies up, eyes wide and limbs splayed. “It’s an ant?” He shrieks with a terror that only a two year old can muster. “IT’S AN ANT!” 

“Nick. Nicky,” Bill laughs, brushing the bug away. “It’s gone, bud. Nothing to worry about. It’s just an ant.” 

“Thithco! An ant,” he wails.

“Did it bite him?” The camera jostles as Jillian sets it on the table moving towards her baby, the scene just barely remaining in frame.

Bill catches Nick’s ankle in his large hand, his face crinkling in concern as he runs his fingers over the unblemished, soft skin. Examining his baby's foot for any signs that his boy is hurting. 

“Just a regular ant. No biting. Nick,” he says with relief as he tries claiming his son’s attention again. Trying to calm his fears.

But Nicky is too distraught. His tears choking him. 

“Pancho!”

Nick freezes, eyes full of tears and surprise. 

“You’re alright. You aren’t hurt," Bill's voice is authoritative, commanding Nick's attention, but soothing and gentle.

Nick takes a big shuddering breath and nods, reaching out for Cisco’s hand. 

There are shouts of concern and maybe traces of guilt from the other Stokes siblings as they rush from their game to their little brother. 

“What happened?”

“What’s wrong with Nicky?”

Nicky’s mouth juts out in a pout. “An _ant_ ,” he whines, scooting from Cisco’s grasp, reaching up for his mother. “An ant, mama.” Nick settles against her shoulder, crocodile tears drying on his face as she gently rocks him.

The video camera jostles again. Blurring and fading to static.

* * *

It’s quiet.

It’s not the first time it’s been quiet. He hasn’t been screaming for hours. He stopped thrashing against the plexiglass, slamming his fists against the confines of the box. Against the barrier that’s keeping him from being smothered by the dirt. Even his harsh panicked breathing has slowed. It’s still ragged but it fades into static. 

The human body adjusts. The mind adapts, accepts this horror as reality. 

The terror that squeezed his chest settles. 

Panic gives way to normalcy at startling speeds. 

He listens. His heartbeat slow and steady in his ears. Rattling from the fan sends soft puffs of air caressing his overheated skin. Sweat on his face and neck drying. 

Plexiglass crackles, spiderwebbing across the box. Dirt scritches through bullet holes near his feet, filling the far end of the box, spilling into his socks and shoes. Cool and moist where there’s a gap between his socks and the hem of his jeans. 

He wonders what will fade first, the green glow, or his life.

Despite the fan, the air is thick. He tries to stop himself from doing the math, the variable of the fan and the battery skews his results because for a box this size he should be long dead and gone. 

His back aches, he shimmies down the length of the box, bending his knees, pushing his lower spine flat against the floor, relieving the twinges of pain. Shifting, attempting to ease the pressure on his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, elbows, and the hips, but it awakens muscles previously numbed by the enforced inertia. 

He turns his head toward the fan again, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath and holding it. 

_Breathe quick._

His head feels thick and aches. Breathing in his own CO2. 

_Breathe slow._

His arm brushes against the cool metal of the gun at his side. 

_Put your gun in your mouth and pull the trigger._

He squirms away from the gun, shoving it away from his grasp, like he shoves away the thought. He’s not going to end it that way. He’s still got time, still got some fight left in him. There’s still a chance…

A quickly fading chance. 

He wonders how long it took for them to realize he was missing. How far he was driven from the scene, drugged in the trunk of the car. How deeply he’s buried.

How long he has left.

He’s going to die here. 

Left to wither and decay. He wonders how long he’ll stay missing and buried. Will his kidnapper tell them where to find his remains? 

Will it be years until someone finds him? A cold case and a tip line begging people for help to solve the mystery of the man buried in the box? A forensic anthropologist who recreates his face and finally gives him a name. Lets him finally rest in peace. 

His thoughts flood with memories of Faye Green. Disappearing without a trace for five years, while her mother waited for closure. 

It wasn’t the first time he was sure he was going to die, held at gunpoint by Faye’s murderer, but it was the first time he thought he might disappear and never be found.

He hopes his mom gets closure.

That Cisco doesn’t sell the ranch and the cars and spend every last cent hiring private investigators to find him when the trail grows cold and the LVPD has to move on. That he doesn’t give up his seat on the bench to chase every long shot.

He can’t give in. 

If they find him, he can’t let them know he gave up. He can’t let his mom see his remains with half his skull missing. They have to believe that he hung on until the very last moment. 

His team needs to know that he trusted them to the end. 

Asphyxiation won’t be that bad. He’ll dream and he’ll slip away. He can save his parents, his family from some horror and let them find him with his skull intact.

He shifts again, t-shirt damp and wrinkled uncomfortably against his skin. He shifts, adjusting the fabric and his elbow bumps against something. He almost shoves it away thinking that it’s the gun. 

The tape recorder.

He fumbles in the dark, hand closing around the plastic, pulling it up to rest against his chest. He listened to both sides, all the way through, playing nothing but static after the macabre message. 

At least he has this. 

His last words. His last chance to say something. To tell his mom he loves her. 

Tell the team that it’s not their fault. 

How do you say goodbye? 

The click of the record button echoes. He opens his mouth to say something and freezes. He thumbs off the button. 

Swallowing down the tightness in his chest.

He tries again.

“My name’s Nick Stokes,” he swallows hard. “If anyone finds this tape, turn it into the Las Vegas PD there should be a reward.” He pauses the tape again. He can’t even give them a clue to his kidnapper. Can’t identify him or the car. Will there even be anyone he knows still working the crime lab in the next five years? 

“Mom, Cisco, I know this is a lousy way to say goodbye but it’s all I’ve got. I love you. You raised me right and I’m gonna miss you.” He chokes on a sob. He’s not going to cry. He can’t let his mom hear the fear in his voice. He has to be strong for her. For Cisco. He doesn’t want them to know how scared he is. He wants Cisco to be proud of him.

“As for the rest of you guys. I know you did the best you could to find me.” 

There’s no better team, no one else he’d rather have looking for him. No one else he trusts more. If there’s any chance of rescue it will be because of the family he found in the crime lab. He wishes he could give them something to work with. 

He knows they'll have to listen to this tape, over and over, analyzing it for any clue he could give them. And he knows his team. He knows they'll torture themselves with it long after they've gleaned anything of importance. He doesn't want them to hear his panic. He wants to be strong for them.

For Grissom. He doesn't want them to think he ever doubted them. He wants Grissom to be proud of him.

“Grissom, I never meant to disappoint you.”

His lips curl as he tries to hold back a sob. Squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught. He’s going to die here.

The voice on the tape was right. 

He takes a slow measured breath, trying to rein in the fear. The regret. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to be strong. He- 

Something sharp pricks his leg. 

He flinches in startled surprise. Maybe a sharp piece of stone or the cracked plastic mixed in with the dirt-

Another barbed sting, another piercing cut before fire erupts on his leg. 

He screams. 

He reaches for his leg, smacking his head against the lid of the box. 

The burning agony continues.

In the low glow, he can see them. Ants. Filling the box. Swarming his leg, biting, chewing, attacking. Their venom racing through his veins, turning his blood to lava, searing him from the inside out. 

It’s an ant.

It’s an ant. A memory he doesn’t remember but has seen played out a hundred times, pulled out for family reunions and high school graduations, and quoted by his sibling cackling in delight as they tease him. Dramatic two year old Nick.

_It’s an ant._

Only this time they bite. 

Blisters explode on his skin. On both legs, stretching high above his knees. Deep into his shoes. On his arms and neck. Crawling up the sleeves of his t-shirt and scuttling across his chest, down his belly. 

Pressing his lips together, his tosses his head, to dislodge the aggressive intruders. He paws at his nose, furiously brushing them away as they sting his hands. He huffs out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Fingers tear at his nostrils, pulling aside ants that try crawling inside, blood streaks across his lip from his nose. 

_Stay still. Stay still. Stay still._ His brain repeats in Grissom’s voice and he tries. 

He tries. 

It hurts. His heart is racing so fast it feels like it will beat out of his chest. His breath comes in short quick gasps through pursed lips, trying to keep his mouth closed. A sting against his cheek and above his eyelid and he nearly opens his mouth to scream. Only the horror of the ants inside his mouth, biting his tongue keeps his mouth closed. 

His arms strike the lid of the box. His feet kick. 

He can’t. He can’t. 

He’s being eaten alive. His flesh chewed on, his body overrun. 

He can’t stop himself, he opens his mouth and screams in anguish. Thrashing against the box. 

Muscles twitch with pain and poison. 

They go for his nose again and he has visions of ants crawling into his sinus cavities and getting stuck there. He claws at his face again. 

There are too many and they’re too small, worming their way past his hands as he tries to protect his face from the onslaught. 

Please. Please. Please.

Find him.

Or end this.

In his hair. Into his ears. 

He digs into his pocket, finding an extra pair of gloves he always keeps there. Grasping the nitrile rubber between fingers that feel swollen and clumsy he rips them into pieces, rolling it and shoving them into his nose and ears for protection. 

He chews on the inside of his cheek and tries to focus on anything except the pain. 

Unending torment. Wishing he would grow numb to it. 

Bite after bite. Each piercing sting shocks through his skin before igniting into a blaze. 

Trapped without reprieve. Nothing 

Will they know how much he suffered at the end as he fought to hang on for just another second?

A clink of metal has Nick opening his eyes. The drawer opens and the table rattles as they pull his body from the fridge. He squints into the bright light, two shadows hover over him. Doc and Super Dave. He thinks there should be a stab of pain with the realization that he's dead. That his friends will perform his autopsy. Examine the cold empty shell of his body.

“Do you think he suffered?” David asks, his face twists in regret. 

Nick watches impassively. Yes. He suffered. But it’s over now and he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when Doc hands Super Dave a knife, or with the whir of the chainsaw, or as the blood spatters against their protective equipment while they withdraw organs he won’t need anymore.

He thought he would find seeing his own autopsy distressing, that his heart in Doc's hand should alarm him but he’s just glad it’s over. Wonders how long it will be until he fades to nothing.

“He’ll look great at the funeral,” Cisco says with a smile. “His mother will appreciate that.”

His mother, there’s a spike of regret. Burying her baby. 

Don’t let her down here, Doc. Don’t let her see him like this. 

Maybe it would be better if they never found him. Why dig him up only to bury him again? It’s not fair to put his family through that.

He can almost hear Cath yelling at him to hang on. He hopes she’ll stay close to his mom during the funeral. His two maternal figures, always watching out for him. 

Wonders if Warrick and Greg would be friends with his brothers under different circumstances. If Sara will bond with his sisters.

Something must be wrong with the refrigeration unit, because the air around him is still stuffy and uncomfortable. 

And it still hurts. It shouldn’t hurt. It’s not fair.

Another sting of pain erupts on his neck. 

They should have washed his body before autopsy. That would have taken care of any stragglers. Maybe there's an infestation in the lab? Or Grissom dropped an ant farm? Ecklie is going to be pissed.

The bright white lights of autopsy fade. 

No. 

An eerie dim green glow takes it’s place.

No. 

That's not fair. This was supposed to be over. He can’t. He can’t hang on anymore. Why didn’t hypoxia just take him? Why is he going to have to end this himself?

His hand searches. Fingers close around the gun. Strained, hoarse whimpers escape his lips. 

He can’t. 

He doesn’t want to do this.

He doesn’t want to suffer anymore. 

Cold metal presses under his jaw. It would be over. Gone in a flash. 

His gun hand shakes. He brings his other hand up, offering support. 

His finger moves against the trigger. 

Just apply pressure…

Light flashes in his face, and maybe… maybe he did it?

Maybe he’s gone? Or he asphyxiated before he had the strength to pull the trigger. 

“Hey!” Warrick’s voice is muffled but breaks through his anguish. “Hey! We got you!” Warrick yells, pounding against the glass, brushing aside dirt.

Nick wipes away the condensation on the inside of the glass. Gun still pressed under his chin, just in case this is another hallucination.

“Put that down!” Warrick orders. His voice frantic. Guilty. Panicked. “Put that down. We got you.” 

The gun clatters from his grip, falling against the plexiglass and Nick sobs. Silent, dry, heaving sobs. No tears, his body doesn’t have a drop of water to spare. 

The ants still bite. 

Warrick continues yelling through the box. “We got you. We got you.”

Nick pounds on the lid. 

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand the short, cold blasts of air, but the stinging begins easing. He doesn’t understand why they don’t pull him out. Why Warrick walks away. Why they came this far for him and left.

Maybe he is dead. Maybe they’re waiting for the coroner. 

He screams and thrashes. Don’t leave him down here. 

Even if he is dead, please, please don’t leave him here. Don’t bury him. 

He doesn’t want to be in the dark anymore. Doesn’t want to lay here under all this dirt for eternity. Don’t leave him.

A shadow falls across him, a voice he recognizes yells for him to listen. To stop. But he can’t. Fear stabbing through him and he can’t calm down. He wants out. He needs out. He’s so close to being rescued. Please. 

Please let him out.

“Pancho!” The word is familiar. The voice is familiar. But the two have never… never been together.

His panicked throes abate. 

“Put your hand on my hand,” Grissom orders. 

Nick obeys with a trembling hand.

"Good. Good, Nicky,” Grissom praises, before he explains. “There may be explosives under the box. Probably set on pressure switches.”

Nick head thunks back. So close.

So close to being rescued and it ends like this. 

“We need to equalize your body weight before we can pull you out, okay?” Grissom takes a breath. “Pancho, nod your head if you understand me.”

Nick slowly nods. 

“Alright, Pancho, we’re going to open the lid and get you out, but I need you to stay laying down, okay? Or else you’ll blow us all up. Do you understand that?”

Nick nods again.

“Do you promise?” Grissom 

Yes, yes, he promises, just get him out. Nick nods. Whimpers. 

“Pancho, say I promise.”

“I promise,” Nick sobs. 

“Don’t move,” Grissom warns again as the lid to his prison slowly rises. 

He tries to stay still, to not shift his weight when the only thing he wants to do is leap from the box. 

Hoarse cries lodge in his throat as he reaches out, desperate for touch. Hands latching onto Warrick and Grissom 

“Stay still, stay still,” Warrick whispers, begging Nick to just hold on a little bit longer. 

Grissom’s hand rests on his chest, the solid pressure a reminder. 

Nick shivers as the cold night air hits his overheated skin. Sweat evaporating. He obeys Grissom’s directions, holding his breath and then the dirt above him drops, and he was never rescued was he? The cracked box gave way and the rescue was a hallucination and he’ll choke. He’ll be crushed and smothered by the dirt. 

And then he’s in the air, flying, landing hard, but above the ground. Limbs twitching, aching. Released from the confines and the unrestricted movement causes spasms. His back contorts as the pressure is finally relieved. 

His desire for human contact is overwhelmed as there are suddenly hands on him. On his back, on his legs, in his hair, holding his hands. He gasps and wheezes.

Wounded, guilty cries from Sara, Greg, and Warrick as they surround him protectively. He blinks against the blinding flashlights.

"Give him some space," Brass barks, ordering everyone except the team back, sliding off his jacket.

“Where are the damn paramedics?” Cath turns, yelling over her shoulder as she brushes dirt and dead ants from his face. His eyes lock on hers, glistening in the darkness. “We’ve got you, Nicky.” Her hand cards through his hair.

Warrick helps him sit up, easing the rattle of his breathing. Settling him against a solid presence behind his back.

A calm, voice murmurs in his ear as his tremors abate and his rasping breaths slow. Authoritative and somehow soothing, 

"It's okay, Nicky. You're going to be okay. We've got you, Pancho."

Nick's head drops back against Grissom's chest.

He's alive. He's safe.

His ears buzz with relief and the world around him turns to static.


End file.
